


in the heat of the moment

by wintersofts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon - Freeform, Battle Couple, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), mostly byleth-centric if i'm being honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersofts/pseuds/wintersofts
Summary: Byleth, Dimitri, and repressed feelings that come to a head in the midst of battle.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 7
Kudos: 191





	in the heat of the moment

**Author's Note:**

> at this point i should really get a beta, but until then... this is un-beta'd.

The streets of Enbarr are filled with carnage. 

Byleth slashes, parries, sidesteps an oncoming foot soldier and buries her sword in his gut. His lance falls from his hands with a clatter as he sinks to the ground, screaming in pain. There is no time for remorse, no time to pause to check if he’s dead or merely wounded before another soldier is upon her. Dodging a wild swing of his axe, Byleth stabs hard and _deep_ , a spray of blood splattering across her armor as she yanks her sword out with a ragged breath.

The cacophony of steel clashing against steel, of the drawn-out death cries and moans of pain rings in her ears. She tries to block them out and search for any allies nearby, but most of the bodies she steps over are clothed in the blue of the Kingdom or the yellow of the former Alliance. Nameless faces who died for a war they didn’t start, who trusted Byleth to lead them to victory, even if they won’t be around to see it. 

She _cannot_ let them down. 

A hoarse yell greets her as she rounds the corner onto a narrow street to see an Imperial soldier charges at her with the last of his energy. Byleth barely blocks his sword and mutters a hurried, desperate _nosferatu_ under her breath to leech the remainder of his life force to bolster her own. His husk falls forward, utterly depleted, but Byleth feels renewed strength enter her body, a potent combination of magic and _life_ that allows her to push forward in spite of her many wounds and aching sword arm. 

This is _hell_ —disorienting, debilitating hell. The Adrestian Empire’s army is better prepared to meet their forces than she’d hoped for. With Hubert at their helm, the Imperial troops are a formidable enemy who turned all the carefully laid battle plans she and her advisers spent weeks crafting to shit. Their chances of victory grow slimmer with each passing second unless Byleth can reconfigure and pull a new strategy out of thin air. 

Hard to do that with her only exit cut off by Imperial troops. Ducking behind a barrel, Byleth prays they haven’t seen her yet. If she wasn’t alone, she would press on and engage them in battle. But earlier, she’d witnessed a swarm of enemies pull Dimitri off his horse and immediately dispatched her soldiers to aid him. _Protect the king._ It seemed the smart—indeed, the only—thing to do at the time. After all, she still had Cyril and his wyvern riders covering her from the air. Then Cyril’s wyvern was shot down by an Imperial archer and his battalion scattered to the wind, leaving Byleth behind. 

And now she’s trapped with enemies ahead and burning debris blocking the street behind her. She can’t afford to linger, but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to escape this predicament. Her static position paints a target on her back. The Empire has troops in the air as well as on the ground, and one of their soldiers spots Byleth and calls out her location before Ingrid engages him in battle. 

She leaps to her feet with a curse as the Imperial soldiers rush towards her, bellowing war cries at the top of their lungs. Thunder crackles at her fingertips, the Sword of the Creator glowing as it responds to her Crest, but as Byleth meets the first of her attackers with a heavy swing of her blade, she can tell it won’t be enough. 

They _will_ overwhelm her, and Byleth realizes all of a sudden that she is not ready—that she is _scared_ —to go down fighting here in the middle of a back alley in Enbarr, devoid of glory or honor or purpose.   
  
She’s only feared death twice before—the first time, when instinct drove her to Rhea’s rescue, and it ended in Byleth being tossed into the abyss for five long years. The second, when she knelt in front of Edelgard at Gronder Field with Aymr pressed against her throat. Dimitri came to her rescue then, his expression a mask of rage and loathing. It had not been about Byleth, in that moment, but of vengeance _so close_ to fulfillment. 

It is Dimitri who comes to her rescue now, as before. She is not prepared for him to smash through the flaming debris with Dedue’s aid, or for him to rip her assailant off her and send him crashing into the wall of the nearest building. Blood drips into her eyes from an earlier head wound, and it takes a few moments for Byleth to understand what is happening. 

Rage doesn’t twist Dimitri’s features here—they are alight with fear, concern, _relief_ when he finds Byleth still breathing. Dedue advances forward with his shield to engage the enemy, his axe glinting in the sunlight, but Dimitri remains by her side and stretches out a hand for her to take. 

Byleth doesn’t. She is _not_ pleased. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands. The fighting is thick here. It’s no place fit for a king. Stepping in front of Dimitri, she sends a fireball past Dedue into a knot of enemy soldiers. The air is filled with their screams and the scent of burning flesh, but still the Imperial troops press forward to try and overwhelm their motley crew. 

Dimitri blinks. “Ingrid said you were—”

“ _Fine_.” Her swings are unfocused and sluggish as if to betray the truth. Gritting her teeth, Byleth uncorks a bottle of Concoction from her belt and downs it before chucking it into the fray. “I would have been fine. You could get—it’s not safe here, Your Highness.” 

“It is not safe anywhere.” Dimitri skewers an advancing enemy and Areadbhar glows red. He gestures behind her and Kingdom soldiers come pouring through the gap Dedue created and crash against the Imperial army like the tide. “Should I have let you fall to save my own skin?” 

Seteth’s wyvern roars overhead as his battalion swoops low to pick enemies off the ground and toss them into the air. “ _Yes_.” Byleth has to shout to make herself heard amidst the commotion. Her heart hammers in her chest— _fear_ , once more, but not for her. For Dimitri. “You’re the future king of Faerghus!” 

His face pales. “You are the future archbishop of the church!” Dimitri’s words are half a roar, half a plea. Areadbhar sings as he cuts down any enemy that dares come near them, and Byleth would admit it is an awe-inspiring sight were she not—were he not in such a precarious position. She sees too much from her vantage point. All the different ways this could go wrong, all the disadvantages they’re at, even with the additional support from Kingdom soldiers. 

“I’m expendable.” She grew up knowing the truth of this—if one mercenary passes up a job, or fails, or falls in battle, there is always someone else waiting to take your place. In the grand scheme of things, Byleth is not important. Even the title of archbishop is contingent on many things, and when they find Rhea in Enbarr after the battle is over, Byleth is prepared to hand it back to its rightful owner. But if Byleth does became archbishop somehow, she is still a lot less important than Dimitri, who carries the future of Fódlan on his shoulders. 

“You are _not_ ,” Dimitri snarls. He buries his lance in the shoulder of a charging Imperial soldier, rips it out, and pivots on his heel to block the axe swing of another enemy. “Not to me.” Byleth whispers a healing spell as she touches his arm, and he catches her hand in his own before she can pull away, glaring at her with all the intensity his lone eye can muster. “I will not lose you again.” Behind the smoldering anger is tenderness, and fear, and desperation. His voice cracks on the last syllable.

Her sword arm slack, Byleth stares at him. Around them, the battle rages on. 

It’s instinct, impulse, a split second decision—but she thinks if she doesn’t do it now, she will regret it for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short it may be. She grabs him by the collar and yanks his mouth down to meet her own in a kiss. It is a brief, hurried affair. Dimitri’s lips are chapped and Byleth’s taste of blood and grime and the world is in _ashes_ , but it is a kiss she’s dreamt of far too often for her to admit to comfortably. 

Dimitri’s eyes are wide with wonderment, the tips of his ears slowly turning red as he looks down at her. “Byleth—” He swallows, breaks off and clenches his gauntleted hand into a fist. “Do not tell me that was a farewell.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says fiercely. It is unfair of her to make promises she can’t keep, especially considering that their greatest foe still awaits. Beyond Hubert is Edelgard, and as much as Byleth does not want to fight her, she has no plans to fall to her either. 

The fear that gripped her before is still a tangled knot in her belly, but she’s still here, still standing, and the day isn’t lost yet. And she’d maybe like to kiss Dimitri properly once more, so she can’t submit to whatever fate or destiny or whatever bullshit that governs the universe has planned for her—defeat isn’t in her cards.

Dimitri’s gaze softens. “I will hold you to that.” 

*** * * * ***

(Later, _later_ , when his shoulder is bandaged and Byleth’s injuries are healed, Dimitri finds her at the end of everything. Wordlessly, he cups her face with his good hand, unexpectedly gentle as his thumb strokes her cheek. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,” she says, tipping her head back to look at him. 

He laughs and leans down to rest his forehead against Byleth’s, his eye closing in contentment. “I did not doubt you.”)

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as an exercise in writing battles and turned into a dimileth and i really was not going to stop it!


End file.
